by Leo Carew
“And what are you imagining I’ll do with this information?” asked the earl. He was relentless. Perhaps it was simply his style, or maybe he was still suspicious of Vigtyr, and trying to press him into making a mistake.
“I thought you might conduct a raid to free him,” said Vigtyr. He detected a sudden movement as Stepan’s head turned towards Seaton, but Vigtyr kept his eyes on the earl.
“I find my suspicion reignited,” said Seaton. “It is more than plausible you’re trying to lure us into a trap. I have no assurances that you are indeed working for the upstart, save that unconvincing scrap of linen. It seems equally likely to me that you are working for the Black Lord and were sent here to trick us.”
“I believe him, my lord,” said Stepan, before Vigtyr could reply. “I believe that to be Bellamus’s handwriting.”
Seaton eyed him suspiciously. “More like you want to believe. I find myself suspicious of you too, Sir Stepan, and that your allegiance lies more with this low-born spymaster than with your king.”
“Bellamus is certainly a friend of mine, lord,” said Stepan, mildly.
“Can you have a friendship with a man like that?” asked Seaton, the malice in his voice naked at last.
“I believe so,” said Stepan, meeting the earl’s gaze calmly.
“Well, you are blinded by it,” said Seaton, dismissively. “A delegation to get him would most likely end in torture and death at the hands of the Black Lord.”
“I would go,” said Stepan, at once. “As would the thirty men I arrived with. If you can create a diversion, lord, and help drain the legionaries from their camp, I could go and get Bellamus.”
Seaton tapped his teeth with a fingernail, looking not at Stepan, but Vigtyr. “Tell us about the work you have done for the upstart in the past,” he said.
“I would send him information, lord,” said Vigtyr, sensing a vague hope, which he clung to desperately. Getting back to camp before dawn had become a distant concern. For now, he must survive this tent.
“How?”
“I would write messages in sheep’s milk.”
“Write how? The Anakim cannot write, you said so yourself.”
“I have been taught, lord,” said Vigtyr, with a touch of pride. “Bellamus sent one of his Anakim agents north with me, a woman named Adras. She has been teaching me Saxon words and letters.”
“By God,” said Stepan softly. “He speaks the truth, lord. Bellamus had one Anakim informant who could write, close to the Black Lord. His messages would arrive in invisible ink, and Bellamus would singe them to read the letters. I saw it myself.”
Seaton raised his eyebrows and Vigtyr tried to look earnest, scarce daring to believe his fortune.
“Well, well, well,” said the earl, slowly. “The upstart lives indeed, does he? That ability of his to survive is quite exceptional. If we are to find him, he will need to be somewhere obvious.”
“I have moved him to the only tent in the encampment, lord,” said Vigtyr. “Right in the middle, in front of the gates of Deorceaster.”
“Indeed?” said the earl, looking strangely at Vigtyr. He could not tell whether Seaton was genuinely impressed, or mocking at his eagerness to help. “And how are we to reward your service?”
“I thought that perhaps I might join you, lord?” said Vigtyr, in a rush. Earl Seaton’s eyes widened in astonishment and Vigtyr went on swiftly. “I’ve supplied a great deal of valuable information, at personal risk. I admire your kind, lord, and had hoped that there might be a position of status for me, one day.”
Seaton’s mouth was open. Then he burst into cruel laughter, those around him taking up the chorus as well. Vigtyr looked down and cursed himself silently. Idiot. He should have waited for when Bellamus had been freed. He would be able to testify for Vigtyr.
Seaton was wiping tears from his eyes. “Give this extraordinary creature some gold,” he said, nodding to a servant. The man produced a leather purse from a chest by one wall and dropped it clinking into Vigtyr’s pocket.
Gold, thought Vigtyr, dully. The weight of it would once have delighted him, but on campaign that weight was simply a burden. He was also coming to wonder if he should not be a bit more like Pryce, who seemed so satisfied, and so disdained material things and personal adornment.
“Escort him to the edge of the encampment and cut him loose,” said the earl, talking over Vigtyr’s shoulder once more. “And we shall decide how to proceed with this new information.”
30
The Spymaster Unleashed
Keturah awoke with a jolt, and found the Chief Historian standing above her. There were half a dozen acolytes in her wake, lightly dressed and shivering in the dawn. Frathi herself wore only a short tunic but evidently had no time for cold. “Come!” she called. “The sun is high.” The sun was barely visible: a bloody conflagration consuming the tattered grey in the east, and tinting Vigtyr’s nearby pavilion, in which Bellamus was now imprisoned. The others around the hearth were stirring feebly, and Keturah stood to strip her cloak. The Chief Historian eyed Keturah’s pregnant belly. “You are doing well, Tekoasdottir, on such short rations. You must be weary.”
“I battle on, my lady,” said Keturah, gravely. She was weary. So weary and sick she felt she could barely stand, let alone join a morning run, but habit compelled her.
There was no warning or stretching. The Chief Historian broke into a trot across the camp, the train of acolytes falling in behind her. Soon their little band was among the dripping shade of the forest, Frathi setting a pace that Keturah could match—for now. Frathi was not fast, being nearly one hundred and seventy years old, but she left the camp and arrived back at exactly the same pace, her lean arms and legs moving in the same mechanical swings, her face the same jagged and impassive blank.
Pigeons cooed throatily from the branches, and once Keturah caught the abrupt percussion of a woodpecker. The mud squelched between her toes and at one point she found herself slipping down a bank and splashing heavily into the cold stream below. Frathi threw a glance over her shoulder, saw she was unharmed and carried on. Someone dropped into the water beside her and Keturah felt two hands beneath her arms trying to help her rise. “Thank you, my dear,” she said, turning and expecting to find Sigrid, but confronted instead with Hafdis. Uvoren’s widow had so far demonstrated energy for no more than lagging behind the main group. Yet here she was, using precious reserves to help Keturah to her feet. Keturah gave her a smile, realising belatedly it was slightly incredulous, and led Hafdis on after the retreating runners.
This morning was harder for Keturah than usual. She found the main train drawing away from her and laboured after them, feeling nauseous and feeble. Her mind conjured reasons for her weakness: it was her pregnancy, and the short rations, and maybe the lingering effects of that poison she had taken on Uvoren’s orders. She did not think she had felt quite the same since, though it was hard to remember. Perhaps she just noticed her weariness more now. Whatever the cause, she tutted and expostulated under her breath as she watched her compatriots, led by the rangy figure of the Chief Historian, pull away through the trees. Eventually she was left alone in the forest, following the footprints left behind. Keturah had so longed to explore this land, but all she felt was heartsickness for her northern home.
The path looped back to camp, the trees began to thin, and unsettling noises reached her ears. Something discordant, chaotic and energetic that she could not identify.
She emerged from the trees to see glittering figures seething across the campsite, like the tide retreating from an estuary. Every man was encased in armour and a white rattle of noise filled the air, as though this tide had dragged with it a million scrambling pebbles. There had been no march scheduled today, and the legionaries she could see were only taking their arms and armour, leaving packs and food behind. The Sutherners must have attacked.
Distantly, one figure towered over the others on a steel-grey horse, gesticulating and marshalling the currents around him.
She could sense his force of will from here in the strange and beautiful symmetry obeyed by the soldiers nearest him. She gave a small smile and felt a little burst of pride in her husband, before remembering to be angry. She managed to twist the smile into a scowl, and began to trot towards her hearth, hoping to find Sigrid, Hafdis and gossip.
She weaved between the onrushing soldiers, dispensing sentiments of good luck, godspeed, let them have it and take no prisoners. The hearth, when she came to it, was fully populated by her friends, on their feet in excitement and each taking a spoonful from a communal porridge pot before passing it on. “We saved you some, my love,” said Sigrid, passing Keturah a separate helping crammed into a cup.
“This is overgenerous,” said Keturah, seizing the pot as it passed and returning a dollop to it.
“You are pregnant,” said Sigrid.
“Never mind that, what’s going on?”
“A Suthern assault, I gather,” said Sigrid, taking a spoonful of the circulating porridge. “They’ve attacked our western flank in great numbers. Fortunately, they ran into Ramnea’s Own, who put up a terrific resistance and now we’re going into full attack. I hear your husband is saying we must take this chance and break them now, and we’re planning to drag them into a full engagement.”
“Well, what stirring news!” said Keturah. “Good luck, peers! Finish them now! Onwards!” There were not many legionaries left nearby, most of them having already swept towards the western horizon, but Keturah dispensed hearty wishes until the last of them were gone, before turning her attention to the cup of porridge. “Almighty, I hope they catch them,” she said to her companions. “If we can destroy their army it would be our first real progress for weeks. This has been dreadfully frustrating.”
“I hope we can beat them,” said one of the acolytes. “I’ve never heard of a Black Army trying to fight so weakened.”
“And Lord Roper still thinks we can take Lundenceaster,” said another. “Fresh armies of one hundred thousand have failed there.”
Keturah shot the acolyte a poisonous look, but Sigrid saved her having to reply. “Lord Roper understands how to fight,” she said. “If anyone can defeat this army, it’s him.”
“We should go hunting while they’re gone,” declared Keturah. “I’d certainly welcome some meat, and it’s preferable to fretting here until they return.” This was met with general approval and bows were unwrapped carefully from oiled cloth, twists of gut-string produced from pouches of essentials, and knives whetted briefly. They divided into small groups, Keturah going with Sigrid and Hafdis. The latter had no bow with her, but preferred not to be left alone. She still contrived to be the last ready, fussing over which clothes to wear and how cold it had been in the forest. By the time they were ready to leave, the other hunters had long dispersed.
Keturah began to stride for the forest, but sensing reluctance, turned to see Sigrid standing by the fire, frowning into the east. “Ready, my dear?” Keturah asked.
“Yes, yes, I’m ready,” said Sigrid, distractedly. “Look over there,” and she pointed to the furthermost rim of Deorceaster’s palisade wall. The land beyond had begun to stir darkly.
“They look like horses,” said Keturah. “That’s where the Cavalry Corps was camping, wasn’t it? They’re a bit behind.”
“The cavalry has gone already,” said Sigrid. “They went past before you arrived.”
Keturah frowned too. There was suddenly a terrible stillness in the air. The distant mass churned and marshalled, drawing unmistakably in their direction, a low noise creeping before them like a distant, endless rumble of thunder.
“Almighty God,” said Hafdis, breathlessly. “My God, they’re knights! The trees! Run, run!”
“Too far!” cried Keturah. “They’ll cut us down long before we get there.” She cast around, eyes alighting on Vigtyr’s tent just as Sigrid pointed in the same direction.
“To the pavilion!”
It offered feeble cover, but the alternative was being caught in the open. All thought banished, they turned and ran for the tent. Keturah cast her bow by the fire, praying it would survive whatever the Sutherners had in mind for their camp. The thunder rolled on and on, Keturah’s weariness replaced by a horrible energy. They hurtled past cooling embers, scattered pots and cloaks and sacks, while behind and beyond their destination, the dark wave of cavalry rumbled closer. They would reach the tent barely in front of the knights.
There aren’t so many, thought Keturah, a few hundred at most, and she almost laughed. They stood no chance. There were three of them, and between them they had Sigrid’s hunting bow and two knives. They reached the tent and tore at the stitches that held the entrance shut, aware every second of the enemy bearing down upon them. They managed to open a slit about three feet off the ground and plunged through the gap like rabbits to a warren.
Inside, Bellamus was tied with his hands behind the central pole, his teeth bared and in such a state of dishevelment that it was obvious their sudden arrival had disturbed his frantic efforts to free himself. The rag over his eye had come loose, revealing a white-scarred orb beneath. The only other contents of the tent were a sack in one corner, and a low wooden table before the spymaster, bearing a few candles and a chessboard.
There was a sudden hush as Sutherner and Anakim regarded each other. We should kill him, thought Keturah. When the knights searched the tent, as they undoubtedly would, they would free Bellamus. With his tricks unleashed once more, this army was doomed. He could not fall back into Suthern hands.
Keturah held her knife low at her side, but she did nothing. It did not seem right to execute a man tied to a pole, even a Sutherner. Even this Sutherner. They were not soldiers. All three had hunted from their early years and had an entrenched respect for their quarry. If they were to encounter a hare or a deer so trussed, its eyes wild with fear, they would have released it. If it was not won by their own efforts then killing it seemed against the unspoken rules of the game. And this was not an animal. This was a man, staring up at them beseechingly, quite certain these three women, with their drawn knives, had come to finish him.
The time for thought had ended, for individual hoof beats were emerging from the rumble, along with snorting and whinnying, and the calls and shouts of knights as they saw the pavilion and closed in. Sigrid had an arrow on her string, and turned to gaze steadily at the gap through which they had entered. Hafdis was panting in terror and uttering low moans, holding her knife two-handed. Keturah moved away from the entrance and backed against the canvas, thrusting the knife into her belt and upsetting the low table in front of Bellamus. She held it in front of her stomach as a shield, all thoughts of killing the spymaster gone. Somehow, they all felt like refugees in the tent. It was the people outside who were the enemy.
“You should go,” said Bellamus, from the floor. “Please. You obviously cannot win this.”
“Shut up,” said Keturah, imperiously.
There was a jingle of harnesses and the hoof beats beyond the canvas ceased. Then a clanking and a thumping as their enemies dismounted. And next, worst of all, the scrape of a sword being unsheathed.
Ashen light fell through the parted base of the entrance and Keturah imagined it blotted out as a figure crawled through. An armoured man, whom they would have to try and kill. She swore at herself for abandoning her bow, so that now she would have to batter at whoever appeared with this table.
Then, with a sweeping noise, a slice of light materialised in the fabric before them. A great-sword had slashed into the canvas, its edge stopped by one of the cords that held the door-flaps together. A foot of murderous steel rested within the tent for less than a heartbeat before Sigrid unleashed her arrow through the gap. There was a shriek of pain and the sword retreated, quite gently, from the opening slash, as something thumped to the ground outside. There came a single-word exclamation in unintelligible Saxon and Sigrid nocked another arrow to her string as a second sword-slash cleaved the entrance open altogether.
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A man, steel-plated and clutching a blade, advanced into the tent. His eyes were covered by a plumed helmet, the only flesh on show his snarling mouth. That was where Sigrid planted her second arrow in a pop of shattered teeth. The man stood frozen for a moment before he was tipped forward by a thrust at his back and another knight stormed the tent, a sword flashing before him.
The knight saw Sigrid scrambling for another arrow and went for her, raising his blade. Keturah had no time to think, raising the table between them. She caught the sword on its edge, a violent shock running through her arms and knocking her back. The sword was jammed in the planks and she yanked it with her, determined to keep its edge away from Sigrid. The table jumped and rattled in her hands as the knight tried to free his sword, but she clutched it tight. A second knight was in the tent, war hammer in hand, and a third behind him. The war hammer was swung at Hafdis, who screamed and ducked. Keturah grimly kept her attacker busy and stumbled into a corner, pulling the knight with her and losing sight of Hafdis. From the corner of her eye she could see Sigrid loose another arrow. There was a crash and Sigrid screamed terribly, dropping her bow and lunging forward with her knife.
Keturah had no time to wonder what was happening as the table jumped in her hands, the tip of the sword quivering above her shoulder. She gripped tighter and tighter. Her opponent might be a man of war; she untrained, pregnant and desperate. But she was an Anakim: a wild and forceful being so unlike this Sutherner, his lineage long abandoned by the natural order. So she gripped the legs of the table, gritted her teeth and swore again and again that nothing, nothing would make her let go.
The light at the entrance was blotted out once more as another figure, a startlingly tall silhouette, stooped through the slash. It walked with unnerving calm, a splitting-axe held in one hand. Then it was past Keturah’s field of view. She heard a sound like a thump on a steel drum, and then again. The jerking on the table died abruptly, but Keturah would not let go. She pushed the table forward, crying out until a voice of pure command snapped at her. “Drop the table, Tekoasdottir. There is more to come.”